


Flex

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28443390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Jim goes for a late night workout.
Relationships: Pavel Chekov/James T. Kirk
Kudos: 20





	Flex

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The halls are emptier at night but never truly barren—every couple of corridors, Jim passes another officer in full uniform, still very much on duty. Most of them nod to him, a few murmuring a respectful, _“Captain”_ , others too caught up in their data PADDs to even notice. It’s an impressive crew he’ll never stop being proud of. One or two have that twinkle of a question in their eye, as though they’d like to know why a man who spends all pseudo-day on the bridge is still awake this late in the pseudo-night. Sometimes by the time Jim does retire, he’s exhausted, because his duties are the most extensive even on the plainest missions. Other times, his shift ends and he’s still vibrating with vigor, because nothing gets him going like the starship _Enterprise_.

This is one of those nights where he’s restless, pacing the halls instead of his quarters just to have more leg room. In a way, the entire ship is his quarters. And he’ll trace them again tomorrow on duty, where he’ll need to be rested and alert, so he really should burn himself out. He could ask Spock for another Vulcan massage, always effective, but his spine’s still screaming from the last one. He could ask for a pill or shot from Bones, but then he’d get a lecture on his sleep schedule sliding out of whack again. It’s easier just to head down to the gym. It’ll probably be empty now, and he can take out a punching bag like it’s a Klingon army. 

A single step into the work room proves him wrong. There’s one officer in the corner, perched in the center of a mat, squatting low with his fists up like he’s practicing a pose—not quite yoga, not quite boxing, but somewhere in the middle. Grey shorts hug his hips and ride up high enough to show his thighs tensed right to the knee, his chest and biceps just as tight, his whole trim body glistening with a thin sheen of glossy sweat. His dark brown hair’s a mess across his forehead, glued to his flushed-pink skin. But his eyes go wide when he spots Jim, and he leaps back to his feet, chirping in a heavy Russian drawl, “Keptain! Good evening. Or, ah, good night!”

“Good night, Ensign.” Jim walks closer as he says it, because Chekov’s right between him and the changing room, and Jim’s not about to drench his uniform or strip down to his boxers. There are more breathable red pants waiting for him. Chekov could’ve made use of the same standard set, but instead he’s sporting shorts that must’ve come from Earth, because there’s nothing _that short_ in the ship’s reserves. He’s not wearing any shirt, but he doesn’t need to—Jim tends to leave his chest exposed too when he gets hot and heavy. Chekov looks far past that limit, still breathing hard even when he’s just standing there. Jim makes a point of looking at his brown eyes instead of his heaving body while they talk. “You seem to be missing a partner.”

Chekov glances around, as though Sulu’s about to spring out through the grey walls. Then he folds his hands behind his back and offers an awkward nod, explaining, “Most of my typical workout partners are on zhe same shift, so...”

“Yes, it is a little late for an officer on alpha shift to be here, isn’t it?” He’s only teasing, of course—it’s admirable that Chekov has enough energy to give his best on the bridge and still hone his skills after hours. It seems he’s a hard-worker twenty-four seven. But then, Jim was too at his age, and still can be some days. 

Chekov pauses a minute before countering, “I could say zhe same of you, Keptain.” Which is fair game. But at least Chekov has the decency to blush for his cheekiness. Jim only lifts a brow, quirking an amused grin, but Chekov still hastily changes the subject. “If you were coming to work out, sir, and were perhaps wanting a partner...”

Though he trails off, Jim gets the insinuation. There’s a generic punching bag hanging on the opposite wall, but it doesn’t look half so fun next to Chekov: a lively, handsome specimen rearing and ready to go. But then, it’d hardly be appropriate for the captain to go rolling around with sweaty, shirtless underlines in tight shorts. Even if there aren’t any witnesses. 

He feels the need to note, “That would look pretty bad, don’t you think? The captain beating up an ensign?”

Chekov shrugs his shoulders and volleys, “I suppose, sir. And if you lost, you might look old and out of shape...” When Jim lifts both brows like he’s Spock on a wild day, Chekov’s blush thickens and he splutters, “Not zhat I zhink so, sir! You are the wery best fighter on zhis whole ship, in my opinion...”

Jim can’t help but chuckle, because they both know Sulu could defeat all of them in a phaser-less melee. But he’s flattered and strangely pleased with the frankness—it’s nice to know that he’s grown so close to his crew that even his ensigns can feel comfortable giving him a hard time. That, or Spock and Bones’ constant bickering on the bridge has started to rub off on everybody else. 

Like Spock and Bones, Jim likes to have a surprisingly strong bond with his bridge crew. So he decides, “Alright, you’ve got me. Just let me go change.” Only because Chekov’s blushing so bright, Jim winks when he passes. He can’t help himself. He has a pair of fluorescent tights to squeeze into and a cute ensign to mop the floor with, and if that doesn’t conk him out in no time, he doesn’t know what will.


End file.
